The Wonderholme Hotel - and seven other crime stories

By Ted Baker

Former Metropolitan police chief Odbald has returned to his home county of Dorset after being sacked by the Home Secretary. With his legendary sleuthing skills and uncompromising style his assistance is regularly called upon. These eight crime stories depict the doyen of detection at his brilliant best.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781471650642

Book preview

Contents

Diplomacy……………………………… Page 3

Highs and lows…………………………..Page 44

A banker’s loss…………………………..Page 86

A captured death…………………………Page 120

The Wonderholme Hotel…………………Page 143

An ear for a bell…………………………..Page 206

Murder in focus…………………………..Page 242

All Together now…………………………Page 277

Diplomacy

Former Metropolitan Police Commissioner Odbald had been living in a caravan since his wife had thrown him out and started divorce proceedings. Her decision to part after nearly thirty years of marriage was because of her husband’s embarrassing sacking from the top job in the British police. Odbald found his new home cold; the heater had packed up and frost stuck to the inside of the windows in the second hand Cotswold Tourer. The blankets that covered him were damp and his breath turned to steam. The sun was barely above the horizon but he decided to rise and move about before he froze to death. Already fully clothed, the former policeman slid his corpulent frame from the shelf that he had been incorrectly assured by the salesman was a perfectly adequate bed, and stood crouched to avoid slamming his head against any of the numerous hazards. Knowing there was no wife to berate him, he broke wind loudly then lit a cigarette. Both these actions warmed him and having pulled on a well-worn wax jacket, boots and cap he exited his ice cube. It rocked slightly as he stepped from it into the frosty outdoors and he made his way across the uneven, rock-hard ground towards the toilet block.

There were just two other caravans in the field. It was one of the few sites Odbald had found that was open all year round. The farmer who owned it knew the former commissioner from before he had entered the police. He didn’t care about his old friend’s sacking and was pleased to let his new guest stay for free. Having swiftly brushed his teeth in a cracked, stained sink, but without bothering to wash or shave, Odbald began the four mile trek to the nearest town and trudged off along the path that skirted the farmyard. In rural Dorset, towns were few and far between and Odbald knew he was lucky to have one so close. Though few shops would be open at that hour there was always the newsagents where he could buy a newspaper and a sandwich. He would have driven, but the Land Rover he bought to tow his caravan had packed up days after he had moved to his new home.

As he rounded the large, red brick farmhouse on his way out along the narrow lane, Odbald was hailed from the milking shed on the other side of the partially flooded yard. It was Giles, Odbald’s old friend the farmer, the owner of the site.

Hold on Odbald, cried Giles, who used only his friend’s surname, as everybody did. He finished releasing a large Friesian from the device that sucked her milk into a large, shiny, metal tank and looked up across the yard.

Over here. Giles signalled with his arm for Odbald to join him in the milking shed. Odbald surveyed the yard that was ankle-deep with liquid cow dung and from his position of relative safety, asked: What is it?

Hang on, sighed Giles, and he soon emerged in his Wellington boots sloshing through the steaming dung and striding towards his old friend. He was the same sort of size as Odbald, broad and large, but without so much fat. The men nodded at each other, exchanged curses about the cold then Giles told his friend about a phone call he had taken for him the previous evening. Odbald had given the number to only six people – he had no wish to be hassled about his sacking by any more people than was absolutely necessary. From running the country’s biggest police force to living in a caravan after being sacked was a heck of a fall. He assumed the call was from his mother, estranged wife or daughter.

None of them, replied Giles, after Odbald had run through the three most likely candidates.

Who then?

A copper, got his name and number inside. Come on.

Odbald followed Giles towards the farmhouse and wondered what David Boyle wanted. He was the only former colleague to whom he had given Giles’ number. Detective Inspector Boyle had been the only high ranking colleague who hadn’t publicly turned against Odbald after he was sacked. And this apparently principled stand had resulted with him being reduced in rank and given a severe dressing down from an extremely senior officer. It had also earned him a public rebuke from a junior government minister. Odbald owed him and felt obliged to help if he could. While career-orientated officers felt they had had to condemn Odbald after his high profile dismissal, he remained a hero to the public and the majority of regular officers.

The rank and file loved him, particularly for his forthright views and old fashioned and popular policing techniques. But those very qualities, for which he had been appointed to the top job in the first place, were the same qualities that had eventually led to his sacking. Changes in government and ‘policing ideologies’ meant that his face no longer fitted. Odbald preferred apprehending criminals to the newer trend of diverting resources into politically correct ‘initiatives’ and ‘PR offensives’. He was not prepared to change his abrasive style and a very public ‘incident’ with the Home Secretary was the last straw. He was in his fifties and a new breed of senior officer was replacing his type.

Inside the farmhouse Giles pulled off his filthy Wellington boots and offered his shivering friend a seat at the kitchen table. Odbald, whose hands and feet had lost all feeling, began to tingle as the warmth from the Aga penetrated his blueing skin. He took off his cap and what was left of his wispy, once-blond hair flew off the top of his balding pate. He sat down, placed his cap on the table and clapped his hands to encourage the feeling to return. His fat cheeks were reddening quickly and he was unaware of the glistening drop of fluid that detached itself from the end of his prominent nose and splashed on the table. He looked enviously at Giles who seemed unperturbed by the cold and whistled happily as he began to make a pot of tea. The promise of a warm drink improved Odbald’s foul mood, but only slightly. His self-imposed exile in the caravan was not proving as easy as he had expected.

The bloody butane burner has packed up in the bloody caravan, Odbald moaned at the farmer, while rubbing his hands to help speed up the warming process.

I’m not surprised, Giles replied in his rural Wessex accent, with a grin stamped on his weather-beaten, rugged face.

Why? asked Odbald, sensing that he was about to be made to look like an ass.

Because butane don’t work at these temperatures. It were well below freezing last night. You need propane. It just happens that I have some I can sell you.

Yes, yes all right, Odbald acknowledged as Giles laughed to himself, what was the message?

Oh, ah, the farmer remembered, and he wandered off to the hall to fetch the message that he had written down on the loose paper he kept by the phone.

David Boyle, he announced on his return, reading his notes. Drunk, by the sound of it. Said he had got a murder to solve and if he didn’t get a conviction he was in trouble. Them’s not his actual words, but that’s what he said.

Right, said Odbald, scratching the stubble on his chin. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Giles’ summary of his former colleague’s predicament was accurate. And he knew he had to help, but he had reservations. He had intended to hide away in his caravan until the furore surrounding his sacking had completely died down. He had been plagued by journalists keen to interview the ‘people’s hero’ as well as an assortment of irritating well-wishers. Should he travel around there was an increased chance that he would be found.

This copper Boyle wants you to phone him, Giles stated. He said he’d be in this early because he’s working eighteen hour days on the case, so I said that you’d phone him about now.

Giles looked at the clock - it was not yet 6am - then went back out into the hall and brought in the phone that was connected to a long white wire. He lifted the receiver, handed it to Odbald then dialled the number that he had written on the sheet of paper. Odbald looked at Giles with a puzzled expression on his face as he waited for someone to answer the phone at the other end.

It’s Odbald, Giles heard, then there was a lengthy pause and Odbald, who had suddenly sat up straight, spoke again into the receiver: Murder? I’ll come and see you. I’ll get a train then a taxi to the nick… All right, not the nick. I forgot. At a pub… OK the Red Lion, Queen Street in Smoorbridge. I’ll ring you on your mobile phone when I get there. I’ll be there later today.

He took a pen that was lying on the table and wrote a series of numbers on the back of his hand. There followed a brief chat before he handed the receiver to Giles who placed it back on the cradle. Odbald then turned to his old friend, and asked the farmer: How did you know that I was going to be here at this time to make the call?

Because, replied Giles, I sold you the butane.

After drinking a refreshing cup of tea and devouring some toast that Giles made for him, Odbald left the farmer to finish his milking and set off towards the town with the intention of catching a train and travelling to help his old colleague with what sounded like an interesting case. He had told Giles that he might be away for a couple of days and was relieved that he would not be sleeping in his freezing caravan. The lanes were narrow and winding and the hedgerows, white with the December frost, were high. The journey was a dangerous one because of speeding cars whose drivers did not anticipate pedestrians at that hour. Odbald kept alert, listening for engines, but all he could hear was birdsong and the wind as it blew through the hedges. It reminded him of his childhood, which he had spent playing in the Dorset countryside, camping out with his pals and working on his parents’ farm. He liked being back, despite the numbing cold and the unfortunate circumstances that had led to his return. As he got nearer the small town, pavements appeared and his pace picked up. In fact, he was feeling almost warm when he neared the newsagents. Its newspaper boys were cycling off into the cold as he approached and he held the door open for one young lad who was struggling with a particularly heavy bag.

Still curious about how the nation’s media was dealing with his dismissal, Odbald bought a selection of papers to read on his journey. Since his employment had been abruptly terminated, most of them had been surprisingly supportive. He also purchased several sandwiches which he began to eat as he left the shop, then headed towards the small railway station. There was no one manning the ticket booth inside the typically Victorian building, so Odbald had to work out how the machines operated – as a powerful police chief he had become unaccustomed to public transport. He finally sat down on a bench to finish his sandwiches and reflected on the events that had turned him once again into an ordinary, powerless citizen, and ultimately to a shivering, lonely figure on a railway platform. He would get his revenge on the person whose fault it was, but that would take time and planning. Having consumed his sandwiches, Odbald wondered how long he might be away; it was all very well spontaneously travelling to another’s aid, but the snap decision had meant he had no spare clothes. That would not usually present a problem because he would simply buy some more, but Odbald did not want to be seen, and he would surely be noticed if he went shopping. But without knowing details of the crime, he was unable to predict when he might return.

His mind turned to the task in hand, the murder he had been called in to help solve. Usually with murders, he knew, the person responsible was identified within days, at most. It was gathering the evidence that took the time and effort. But evidence gathering normally required just application, effort and thoroughness – not a sacked chief commissioner. In Odbald’s day as a young detective it was accepted that a robust physical interrogation to attain an admission of guilt from suspects was a reasonable technique. This practice had long been outlawed and Odbald had always secretly believed it had been a regressive step. As he waited in the biting cold, he began to suspect that if his assistance were required, the chances were that his old colleague did not have a suspect. And despite an initial reluctance to help, he was becoming more intrigued.

A train finally rattled into the station; just one person alighted and Odbald was the only passenger to board. The journey was not a simple one, there were three changes that needed to be made before Odbald was able to get off at the station in the large town over the county border in Wiltshire. On his trip he drank cup after cup of coffee and tried to read the various newspapers he had bought. He was no longer featuring in them and this fact cheered him. But he did spot, in a regional paper, a report of the murder that he had been called in to help solve. It was a short story and the paper was clearly finding it difficult getting new lines to keep the killing newsworthy. Due to his self-imposed exile, Odbald hadn’t heard about the crime, which was something that usually he would be well informed about.

That morning the paper repeated the facts as the police had told them. It said that the well-known and highly regarded citizen Sir Julian Montague, a former diplomat, had been murdered at his multi-million pound property, Ashfield House, in the small, quiet village of Smoorbridge. It was reported that his wife, Sarah, had found him and that Sir Julian had died from a blow to the head. The weapon had been recovered but there was no mention of what it was. The only other details were that Sir Julian and his wife had entertained several friends on the evening of the murder and that the police were appealing for witnesses. There was no report of anything being stolen and no hint of motive. The details in the paper more or less tallied with what Odbald had heard from David Boyle on the phone that morning. But Odbald decided to wait until he could speak to his old colleague in person before he started to theorise on what had happened at Ashfield House.

During his complicated rail journey Odbald discovered that the trains’ toilets were completely inadequate for his requirements, the seats were uncomfortable, the stations cold, the staff rude and the prices high. Every train he boarded was late. And when inside them his impressive girth meant his posterior spread over the seat next to him, making every moment uncomfortable. There was also the problem he faced of being recognised, so he pulled his cap down over his eyes and for most of the journey hid behind newspapers. His face was well known around the country, but he hoped that his new, unkempt appearance would hide his identity to the majority of fellow passengers. For much of the journey he stared through the window as the countryside rushed past. The frost was disappearing and remained only in the shaded areas, but it was still cold and Odbald noticed steam rising off cattle as the train sped past a farm.

He eventually arrived at his destination just in time for an early pub lunch and found a suitably convenient hostelry next to the town’s railway station. He ordered and ate a huge rump steak and washed it down with a couple of pints of ale. He had arranged to meet the newly-demoted Detective Inspector Boyle at the pub in the village where the murder had been committed and having finished his meal he asked the barman for the number of a taxi firm and ordered a cab to take him to Smoorbridge.

Shortly afterwards he was heading west in the back of a taxi that was being safely driven by a young, brown-skinned man whose name was Ali. Odbald assumed that he was the same Ali after whom the firm, Ali Cabs, was named, but the driver corrected him and said that the company’s boss was his uncle. He then boasted that Ali Cabs had thirty-two cars, although he conceded that some of the drivers were part time. The journey, which was mostly spent in silence, took about twenty minutes and Odbald was expertly dropped off right outside the remote house where the diplomat had been killed. Although his final destination was the Red Lion pub, Odbald wanted to have a quick peek at the scene and to walk off his lunch. Ashfield House was a large country home situated just on the outskirts of the village, hidden deep among trees and accessible only up a narrow, winding road.

Odbald paid Ali, left a reasonable tip, and wandered up to the uniformed officer who was standing at the start of the property’s drive, which had been cordoned off with blue police tape. The constable eventually recognised the former commissioner of the country’s biggest police force and instinctively greeted him and addressed him as ‘sir’.

Not any more, son, Odbald corrected him. So the old boy was murdered here then?

That’s right, replied the constable, keen to answer the questions of a former senior officer whose methods he so respected, during the early hours of the third, four days ago.

Umm, said Odbald, straining his neck to get a glimpse of the house, just like an ordinary member of the public would. Nasty business, terrible, he added, shaking his head.

He then heard shuffling behind him and turned to see a wrinkled old lady edging towards the policeman. She was a cleaner who had been employed by the murdered man and had been to the house every day since the body had been discovered. Her motive was not out of genuine concern for the state of the house, or from a need for regular pay, but purely out of the hope of gaining some facts that she could use for gossip. The officer politely told her that still no one was allowed in the house – even the cleaner - and he could tell her nothing new. The white-haired lady stretched her neck for a look down the drive, sighed, then pottered off. Odbald smiled at the young constable in sympathy and then, when the elderly cleaner was out of earshot, said: I’m here to see your former Deputy Chief Constable Boyle. Keep it to yourself. I’m meeting him in the Red Lion, where’s that?

The constable pointed him towards the village centre and Odbald lit a cigarette and plodded off to meet his old friend. He thought he would phone DI Boyle from the pub to let him know that he had arrived. This would also give him a few minutes to enjoy a pint. It took him twenty minutes walking along the narrow, winding lanes to reach the village, by which time he was puffing and had built up a thirst. As he got nearer the centre of Smoorbridge he spotted the tower of the Norman church and then his eyes fell thankfully on the thatched pub. On entering, Odbald took off his cap, rubbed a hand through his remaining hair and looked around the welcoming interior. The hostelry was doing a brisk trade as the lunchtime rush headed towards its peak. Most of the customers were from outside the village and there were some present because they were intrigued by the murder. Odbald was surprised to see DI Boyle already there, sitting at a table next to one of the windows at the front of the pub. The policeman was on his own, and clearly deep in thought.

Odbald approached his former colleague, and spoke his name. DI Boyle looked up, stood to shake hands and smiled broadly, relieved to see his old friend. He was delighted that the former commissioner was there to help. Despite being reduced to a lowly Detective Inspector, his superiors had put him in charge of the murder case and he had rarely been under such pressure.

Good to see you again, David, said Odbald, pumping the detective’s hand.

Good of you to come, he replied. The officer was some years younger than Odbald and he spoke from beneath a neat moustache. 

He invited his visitor to sit and offered to get some drinks from the bar. Odbald nodded keenly, removed his coat and took position at the table, facing away from the people. The pub was filling steadily and Odbald hoped that the conversation he was about to have would not be overheard. Rumours, he knew, could do terrible things to an investigation. DI Boyle returned with an orange juice for himself and a pint of ale from the local brewery for his guest. Odbald recalled Giles saying that the man he had spoken to on the phone the previous evening had sounded drunk, and on looking at his old pal, Odbald clearly saw the signs of a man who was stressed and hungover – and understood why he was drinking a soft beverage. Usually David Boyle’s thick, brown hair was carefully combed, but Odbald noticed that its appearance was slightly unkempt. The DI was wearing a creased suit and the collar on his shirt was turning brown. Clearly he had slept in his clothes. Until recently DI Boyle had been wearing a uniform as Deputy Chief Constable. But since his reduction in rank he was wearing civilian clothes – it was part of CID life.

Odbald’s appearance was so scruffy that DI Boyle believed no one would recognise him as the same person who had filled so much space in newspapers over the previous few months. And the fact that Odbald was smoking and drinking – habits he had rarely partaken of publicly during his high profile police career – aided the disguise. The pair had worked on the same specialist Metropolitan police team many years earlier and Odbald had taught his younger colleague a great deal. DI Boyle had always been impressed by the experience and was not surprised when Odbald had been made commissioner. But he had always been slightly nervous around his old colleague whom he found impulsive and unpredictable, not ordered and methodical as he was.

Right, said Odbald, as DI Boyle sat down, spill the beans. He couldn’t wait to hear the facts of the case.

OK, began the policeman, opening a small, black notebook. "We were called to Ashfield House at 1.57am on Saturday the third. Sarah Montague called 999 to say that her husband, Sir Julian, was dead. The operator tried to